Unsung
by Princess-Arulmozhi
Summary: Enlightenment can take any form, and may come from anyone. QuiGon and ObiWan take one more important step towards understanding.
1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

Usually, there would be the soft clatter of cups and plates in the cooking area, accompanied by the aroma of sweetened tea, garnished with herbal essences. Or, if neither of its occupants felt like pottering about with plates and saucers, the muted sounds of a soft cloth wiping across the slightly counter.

Usually, there would be a general air of settling down, bags being unpacked, doors opened and closed, window embrasures opened to let the air of Coruscant – however unclean it might be in the nether regions, one nearly always got some semblance of freshness on the upper levels – inside chambers locked up for weeks or even months.

Usually, either one voice – deep, rich and controlled would speak of something, both consequential and otherwise, with another voice – low, well-pitched, and tinged with the deep core accent polished individual always prized so much – and enjoy a conversation until the hours of bed approached.

Usually, there would be an aura of peace, sometimes, of a mission well accomplished. Or sometimes, apprehension and worry, if one or the other happened to be injured. Deep, involved discussions regarding the aftermath of a debriefing.

Usually.

This time, a deep, stifling silence pervaded their chambers.

Within his room, Obi-Wan Kenobi opened his small, space-saving case and put away his meagre belongings, tunics and legging and soft shoes. His hand hovered over his light-sabre, as though debating about whether he should remove this too, and then decided against it. He stood up from his bent posture, feeling his sore back give a twinge, and massaged the aching muscle. He put away his bag, looking forward to freshening up himself – it felt as though he had all of the Se'emarian plain's soil plastered onto him. If it felt this way for him, then he could barely imagine how it felt for Qui-Go—

He stopped midway, fingered his braid thoughtfully, feeling that it too, needed washing, and was about to walk out of his room when his com-link beeped.

For a moment, he thought it was Qui-Gon himself calling—this had been their almost only method of communication, as long as they had remained on planet—before remembering that Qui-Gon was in his chamber, just a door away from him, and would hardly use a com-link to speak with him.

On the other hand, one never knew exactly what Qui-Gon might do. He had certainly refused to contact his padawan through their bond for the past week, and whatever conversation they had had, had been brief, sporadic, and very much to the point.

He paused in mid stride, feeling the long-lost, familiar prickle of dread, coupled with a slightly sickening feeling of having disappointed Qui-Gon, and swiftly tried to banish it. Qui-Gon had never really railed at Obi-Wan regarding his doings on any mission, other than point out his errors in that cool, clear voice of his that made one want to cringe and retire into some deep dark hole forever. Even that had stopped of recent times as their bond grew in strength, and as both acclimatized to each other, understanding each others' strengths and weaknesses. He still felt a tiny thrill of pleasure when he remembered one or two missions when their thoughts and impulses had been identical.

There had been something deeply fulfilling about that oneness.

Over the five years that marked his apprenticeship with Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn, he had begun to look forward to those periods when his focus reached such clarity, such pinpoint precision that he seemed to see things well before they happened, and had acted before he thought. And those thoughts and actions had not been wilful, impulsive or haphazard, but had yielded the expected result.

The glint of approval in Qui-Gon's eyes had even removed the need for food and drink, sometimes. It had churned in him a desire to do better. To do more. To acquire Qui-Gon's respect. He thought he had won it… but it seemed he had not.

What had he done, this time?

The mission had, to all intents and purposes, been a success. Well, somewhat. They had relocated an entire primitive tribe of hills-men to a safer sanctuary, safe from their so-called civilized predators, who had promised them a better life – but had had no intention of doing so. He had stayed with the tribe, guarding them almost single-handedly, while Qui-Gon shunted back and forth between the plains and underground caverns, trying, until the last possible moment, to negotiate some semblance of peace. It had taken a small battle of sorts to finally drive the Jedi down to the caverns.

They had won … and yet, they had lost. They had protected the tribe they had sworn to guard … but they had failed to assure them of an equal place on their planet. It would take another mission. Another Jedi, perhaps, who was meant to achieve it.

It was when they were absolutely sure that there was no prospect of peace—at least for that time—that Obi-Wan had sensed the change in Qui-Gon. The Master's lips had thinned, his eyes had hardened into black ice, and a certain rigidity entered his posture.

It had not changed, thus far. They had returned home in almost near silence.

And now, he could hear muted sounds of his Master in his own room—the door must be slightly ajar, he thought absently—but a thick veil hung in between them. Obi-Wan had found, much to his dismay and some apprehension, that he could be quite as stubborn as Qui-Gon was: he would not break the silence until the Master did.

This was not very Jedi-like, he mused. In fact, it smacked of a—

_Bee-ee-ee-eep._

He came to himself with a little start and looked down at the com-link trilling away at his waist, surprised that he had actually managed to ignore it for a good few minutes. He looked at the blinking light, debating about opening the little display panel that would indicate to him the identity of the caller. The Council had recently decreed the issue of customised com-units that included tiny vid-panels: they were inordinately expensive, even by Jedi standards, since they contained a variety of other tools not found in the usual unit. It had been issued only to a few teams in the Order; Obi-wan had discovered, much later, that theirs had been one.

He touched a pink button—why _pink_, of all colours?—opening the communication channel, and opening his own door, as he did.

"Padawan Kenobi?"

"Yes?" Oh, he recognized this voice. He had not heard it in a long while, now.

"I trust thy journey was pleasant."

A bittersweet smile touched his face. Pleasant.

"It is good to hear from you, Master," he said formally. "Yes, our journey was uneventful."

"It was decided that a meeting might not be remiss, this even, at the hour of the songbird." His smile grew. Really, the Master's words grew formal with every passing moment—but he knew that he would not have it any other way.

"Indeed."

"Thy presence would be most welcome, if thou can but attend."

"It would be an honour," he said quietly.

A moment later, he ended the conversation, to see Qui-Gon standing in front of him.

* * *

It could not be said that the journey back to Coruscant and the subsequent interlude in their own quarters had been of much benefit to Qui-Gon's peace of mind. It was usual for him to chase around details of their mission for some time after it ended—this was only natural, despite his instinct for rooting himself in the present.

Idly, he remembered that this was not the advice he gave his padawan: Obi-Wan was always to keep his focus in the here and now. Mulling over the past would achieve nothing; it was already over and done with. Thinking about the future meant nothing as well, for the Force dictated the future, and a Jedi had very little part to play in it except perform his own duty.

He held up a long sleep tunic in his mind, discarding his own, very sound advice and allowing his thoughts to creep back to the past.

It hadn't worked. Nothing had worked, it seemed; he had been at his persuasive best to instil some reason into Mah Hoakdai—but the man had not seemed swayed by his arguments, insisting that the tribals were beings who were only just barely sentient. Even that, he thought wryly, had been a concession.

He had felt the same, heavy weight descend into the pit of his stomach that he had felt, on numerous occasions when he had faced the similar prospect of unyielding beings, who more or less clung to their own self-conceived prejudices. A thousand times had he faced them; a thousand times had he confronted their arguments.

Then why did he feel, this time, that he had accomplished nothing?

He was a Jedi Master, he had acquired enough mastery over himself to complete whatever remained on hand, regardless of what his misgivings were. And he had. It had been a compromise, but he had ensured some safety.

Perhaps, had he been accompanied by another Jedi, another seasoned negotiator, another who was as well-versed as he was in mediation … perhaps that might have eased the situation.

Obi-Wan.

He compressed his lips. Had he truly taught his padawan well? Did he have it in him to become a master negotiator? It was not much being a warrior; proper training and skill would ensure that. Wars fought weren't important; it was the wars that were prevented from happening that mattered.

Had he had a Jedi other than Obi-Wan beside him, would anything have changed? Perhaps… for the better?

He stopped abruptly, gazing unseeingly at the shelves in his room. Half of his mind processed this new turn of thought in a detached manner; the other half considered him with some shock.

Obi-Wan had been at his side for five years now. His trusted aide, his padawan; the apprentice he sought to train. Were he to make mistakes, it would still be forgiven, for he was yet a novice.

Even so, Obi-Wan had yet to make such a huge mistake that jeopardized whole missions. To be sure, there were one or two incidents—but he had meditated upon them, and had come to the conclusion that nothing could have changed the outcome. He had even been proud of how his padawan had extricated himself out of some delicate situations, he remembered.

And yet…

He folded the tunic slowly, still surprised, and rather worried about a mind that had suddenly begun, it seemed, to doubt the skills of his apprentice. The way he had handled the hoarding of the tribe—could there have been another way out? Could there…

Long forgotten questions arose again, and he rubbed his temples, tired. _Enough_, he chided himself. _You think too much. _

Obi-Wan had done everything that could be humanly done. He had been the perfect padawan. Well-trained, obedient, almost a machine, in the way he had conducted himself, effacing himself into the background, and offering Qui-Gon all the support he needed, while removing as many of his worries as he could.

A sinking feeling appeared in his heart and he analyzed it, dismayed. Why was he worried? There was no need to be. Obi-Wan, it appeared, was the perfect Jedi. Withdrawn, efficient, controlled.

Perhaps that was all there was. Perhaps he had taught the boy everything. Perhaps Obi-Wan was one of those exceptional learners who became knights at a ridiculously young age—Force knew there had been knights and even masters at twenty-six or seven …

He clenched his fist, feeling a sudden spurt of anger. Irrational, unnecessary. He thought of that serene face, with its jewelled eyes, and guileless expression. _Yes, Master. No Master. As you wish, Master_.

Master.

He had a sudden impulse to catch Obi-Wan by the boy's slender neck and shake the life out of—

He knelt on the bed, breathing deeply, massaging his temples. _No. No. No_.

It was as he was attempting to sink into some kind of meditation that he heard Obi-Wan's low voice, speaking to someone—who? They had been back at the Temple for barely a few hours.

It seemed as though Obi-Wan did not wish his Master to hear the conversation. He spoke in an even more low tone, if possible, in the com-unit with that ridiculous pink button—

His lips pressed together again and he rose slowly, rather gracelessly, meditation forgotten. For that matter, even his clothes remained in his bag, unpacked. He strode out of his chambers and stood in front of Obi-Wan, who had switched off his com-unit just that instant, and was now looking at him, startled.

They remained this way for some time, each surprised, and waiting, it seemed, for the other to speak.

It was Qui-Gon who broke the silence first. "We are required to be present before the Council at the eleventh hour."

Obi-Wan looked down briefly, before replying. "I believe that is tomorrow." He watched Qui-Gon's fingers clench, and then release themselves. "Is there anything you wish me to do?"

"No." There was a pause. Qui-Gon was looking at the couch in the common area, his eyes strangely unfocussed. "There's nothing."

For a fleeting second, the veil shutting off their bond was uncovered, and Obi-Wan sensed the fine layer of weariness that seemed to coat the Master. The skin around Qui-Gon's eyes were dark, and he looked exhausted. It was as though a long closed door had been opened, affording him a brief glimpse, and he drew a quick breath, eyes widening. As quickly as it had opened, though, the door slammed shut again.

Suddenly, his apprehension vanished. A strange exultation arose within. "I have been asked by Master Ada Areilein to attend a meeting at the hour of the songbird, this evening."

Qui-Gon seemed to turn his attention away from the couch with some difficulty. "Yes?" he questioned mechanically. Then, his attention appeared to refocus. "The crèche master?"

"Yes."

"What meeting is this?"

"Ten or fifteen more masters may attend, perhaps," Obi-Wan said slowly. "Sometimes knights attend too. Anyone is welcome."

"Ten or fifteen masters?" Qui-Gon asked. "Is it a sparring session?"

Obi-Wan's lips curved into a smile. "Hardly."

To Qui-Gon, he seemed to taunt the master, challenging him to guess something that might have been easy for a crecheling. Abruptly, a surge of anger rose, startling even himself.

Obi-Wan seemed to have guessed this. "Perhaps you would like to come?" His tone was low and deferential, again.

"I must prepare my report for the Council. And so must you."

Obi-Wan bowed, pursing his lips. "I have promised master Ada…" His voice trailed away.

"You are of an age to determine your priorities," came Qui-Gon's voice, clipped. "Remember your duties, padawan, whatever else you may be inclined to pursue."

For the first time, a look of hurt flickered through Obi-Wan's features, and he regretted his tone at once. The boy had done nothing to deserve it.

"I request your permission to attend, Master." His padawan's words were at their formal best.

"As you wish." A wave of weakness assailed him and he turned away, feeling drained and weary. It had been a long time since he had felt this way, without a severe injury to mark him.

Perhaps he was growing old. Soon, he would outlive his usefulness. Perhaps, assigned to a duty within the Temple's confines, where he could nurse his weariness at length and recuperate for months. His missions would pass into legends…

Obi-Wan watched, as Qui-Gon made his way back slowly, into his chambers.

* * *

An hour later, resting in his room, or attempting to do so, at any rate, Qui-Gon heard the soft swish of a door opening and closing, and knew that Obi-Wan had left.

He considered again, this strange meeting with crèche masters. When had Obi-Wan developed a taste for caring for younglings? So far, he had shown no marked inclination for it—though he was, in fact, welcomed with enthusiasm when he chose to go among them.

He went through every word Obi-Wan had, analysing it as though it were a coded message. Master Ada. Creche. Meeting. Ten or Fifteen knights. The hour of the—

He sat up suddenly, intrigued. Could it be? It could. One never knew. And yet…

He rose, threw a cloak around himself, and walked out.

**(_tbc..._)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm a very mean author, aren't I? Sorry. Here's the next chapter for your edification. **

**Part II**

It was, he mused, unusual for anyone to refer to an hour as the 'Song bird' hour. Few people did it: knights and Jedi who had been within the Temple for long, and who professed an interest in archaic traditions and cultures. It immediately brought back to mind age old customs and long forgotten eras, in which had lived great Jedi and small.

The song-bird hour referred to the hour of twilight.

In olden days, when the Jedi Temple was not the monument it was, and when Jedi were perhaps, used to living more of their life outdoors than they did now—even within the Temple—there must have been some kind of tradition that bound them to this hour. There were still Jedi who meditated at the song-bird hour, claiming that this hour possessed a cleansing quality. To Qui-Gon Jinn, all hours were the same, save the early morning ones. He supposed this was what those Jedi had felt too.

He desisted from asking anyone for directions, nor comming Obi-Wan for his destination; his padawan's faint Force aura was visible in his mind's eye, and it wasn't difficult to follow his trail if he concentrated. Obi-Wan's signature contained, moreover, an elusive something that had been lacking all this while. Some spark of delighted anticipation, perhaps?

A wild fantasy erupted within his imagination. Perhaps it was an assignation. Of the romantic sort. He remembered the way Obi-Wan's eyes had followed one particular Jedi padawan, during one of their stints in the Temple some time ago. Tachi?

But no. One would hardly make romantic assignations with ten or fifteen Jedi knights and the crèche master in attendance.

He smiled. And certainly not Obi-Wan, who seemed to have severed all ties with padawan Tachi, of late.

He had thrown his cloak over himself, pulling the hood well over his eyes—even so, a good many of the Jedi who passed him appeared to recognize him, and made some sort of greeting. The great Qui-Gon Jinn was passing through the halls, he thought, twisting his lips. Qui-Gon Jinn, who had mastered his self so perfectly that he had cleansed himself of the taint and sorrow of his second padawan's turning, to taking another, and training him to perfection, besides handling high priority missions as though it were a party in the Chancellor's private gardens.

Indeed.

He still remembered how surprised he had been, when he had heard this whispered in the senior masters' seclusion chambers many weeks ago.

Ahead of him, Obi-Wan seemed to have reached his destination. He walked along one dimly lit corridor, and stopped in front of a nondescript door, which was located very near the Gardens of Tranquillity. He hesitated for a moment, fingers poised above the control panel, trying to sense the auras of those within.

Suddenly he did not feel that his errand had been a fruitful one: following one's own padawan did not seem the right thing to have done. But Obi-Wan had invited him, after all, and he had merely accepted the invitation.

After a fashion.

His dilemma was solved by another factor: another Jedi knight appeared, walking along the silent corridors, boots tapping hollowly, and came to the door. He pushed back his hood, revealing long waves of silver hair—a rather young knight, perhaps in his early thirties. He stopped, surprise etched on his face. Then, he recovered.

"Master Jinn," he said pleasantly. "We were hoping you might make an appearance, some day."

"Ah."

"Padawan Kenobi has arrived too, I presume?"

"Yes." Qui-Gon searched his memory for what the knight's name might be. Hallan? Hallen? Hallon?

"Ah, excellent." Hallan/Hallen/Hallon smiled again. "One never knows what one can expect, from him."

"Oh?" The confusion grew by every passing moment, if anything.

"Yes." Hallan/Hallen/Hallon seemed to be inclined to speech, despite his slight look of awe at Qui-Gon. "I must admit, though, that I like the pathos best." He shook his head, as though mocking himself, a smile on his lips. "All though humour does wonders."

Before Qui-Gon could puzzle over this extraordinary statement, a gentle chime sounded. The door swished open. The young knight stepped in, throwing a welcoming smile at Qui-Gon.

"Enter, please," came a clipped voice from within, which Qui-Gon recognized at once. Strange, how never forgot certain voices despite all the years that passed…perhaps, because, these were the first voices one heard. The threadiness that underlined it, the low, raspy pitch, precise, yet soft, in some peculiar way.

"Master Areilein," he said as he stepped in, eyes sweeping through the room, inclining his head.

Ada Areilein moved forward—he did not walk, not in the human sense of the term…for he wasn't human. Of reptilian descent, he and Qui-Gon were the same height; smooth, shining scales covered his body, and though some genetic engineering had enable him to adopt a more humanoid appearance, his ancestry was obvious to anyone who looked at the snout-like projection that made up his face, large, cold eyes, and the sharp, curved claws attached to his limbs.

Oddly enough, this Master, of a kind that would be calculated to inspire terror amongst humanoid cultures, possessed one of the softest hearts in the Jedi Temple. Infants of any and every species were soothed by his speech, stretched their small arms and legs within his embrace, and cooed to his raspy lullabies. Until they completed five cycles, they were entrusted to his care, and he ruled them with a kind and yet firm hand – or claw. Most were loathe to part with him at the end of his tenure, and it was here that his true worth was exhibited: having trained younglings in their first steps into the Force, he willingly gave them over to their next masters.

Ada Areilein was one of his kind. Or her kind. Even 'it' kind, since his race was genderless, but custom had slotted the master as male.

Qui-Gon remembered misty tendrils of days when he himself had belonged to the crèche, secure in the knowledge that as long as 'Master Ada' remained, nothing and no one could harm him.

For, Ada Areilein belonged to a species that possessed longevity of life as one its chief characteristics. He had arrived at the Temple even before Master Dooku's birth, and had trained to be warrior. His natural instincts had taken hold, later, and the Force nudged him gradually towards the crèche—this was how he explained it, a twinkle of humour in his eyes. And he had remained a permanent fixture of the crèche ever since.

"Qui-Gon Jinn," he said, toning his voice to fit the ambience. "Thou art most welcome."

Qui-Gon nodded again, unable to stop himself from looking about the room. If it could be called a room, that is. To be sure, there was a sprinkling of soft couches and seat of polished metal, gleaming in the glow-lamp's light…but it possessed no ceilings, or walls. Instead, the floor under one's feet simply gave way to the gardens. Outlines of bushes and trees could be seen from where he stood, their forms reaching up against the deep grey-black of the Coruscant night sky. A small wind blew, rifling his hair and robes briefly, before wafting away towards the other corners of the room.

A dozen Jedi Knights and Masters filled the 'room', some seated, others murmuring, their collective voices floating over the room like the roar of a restless sea. Qui-Gon's eyes searched over the motley group, recognizing even a padawan or two, by their long, shoulder length braids, looking for his own, among them.

"Thy padawan is yonder. With Knight Sellib Ararra," Master Ada pointed a claw towards a bush, where Obi-Wan knelt on the grassy floor, a slight smile on his lips, apparently listening with deep interest to whatever the knight had to say.

"Master Ada," began Qui-Gon, his attention still on the others in the room. "Pardon me for having arrived without being invited."

"Anyone is welcome to our gathering, Qui-Gon Jinn." One could never know if Master Areilein smiled or frowned, but one could generally do so by searching the Force, and his eyes.

"Forgive me," Qui-Gon said again. "But I do not know yet…" he paused, his eyes searching Obi-Wan again, who seemed to have given no sign of knowing that he had arrived. "I do not know yet what this gathering is in aid of."

"That surprises me not," was the other's calm answer. "Few know about such meetings; thine own interest shall determine thy presence."

"Ah." Obi-Wan had raised his head and was now looking straight at Qui-Gon, blue-green eyes slightly veiled. He was smiling slightly. Then, he rose and bowed. Qui-Gon looked back at him impassively, probing his shields.

They were closed to him, and he retreated, puzzled.

"My own interest?" he hazarded.

"Thine own." Master Ada's eyes raked over his form. "I see you seldom, Qui-Gon."

"My missions…" Qui-Gon spread his hands out, and his companion nodded.

"And so it is, with us all." He inclined his snout-head. "Now, I must see to others, if I must not be remiss about this gathering."

He guided Qui-Gon towards a seat and left him, claws clicking over the floor as he moved away towards a knot of other knights.

Quite suddenly, Qui-Gon decided that he would not speak to Obi-Wan. Not just yet. The boy was forced to be closeted with him too much as it was, he reasoned. He ought to meet other knights. He must know what it was, must know life as it was, when he wasn't in the vicinity of Qui-Gon Jinn. Obi-wan had his own coterie of friends, he knew—he expected to see one of them appear, at any moment—but strangely, none of the faces he knew did.

It had been a long time since he had seen Obi-Wan aside from when they were on a mission, speaking with anyone unconnected to it. On duty, a thin line of consciousness always connected them; one never knew when the other might need him—it had become habit to always be aware of the other's thoughts. It had been Qui-Gon's suggestion that they block themselves from each other, when they were within the Temple. Obi-Wan had welcomed this with alacrity, he thought, with a pang. Ah well. One needed one's space after all. And a padawan deserved no less.

Not even the Temple was inured to danger, though.

He turned his thoughts away from this rather unhealthy train, and gazed at the others. Some smiled at him—the senior knights—while others, though recognizing him, stayed away, out of respect, he knew. Few things were less palatable than someone who forced himself onto another's attention. Perhaps, there was something in his aura that urged them to stay away. He looked with interest at a delvei'ish—legendary dancers and performers, originally said to be of Alderaanian descent. Their faces were elaborately made up, their movements graceful and precise, and when they sang, few could resist their spell. Intensely hard workers at their craft, they were not unlike Jedi themselves; while Jedi gave themselves up to the Force, the delvei'ish devoted themselves to the arts. Some spent lifetimes in garnering knowledge about fine arts. They were connoisseurs, nearly always present to perform at royal and other high profile gatherings.

Their relationship with the Jedi was something that had existed for centuries. And one that defied convention.

Not all Jedi were sworn to a life of celibacy. It was advocated, of course, and when one had a natural inclination for the celibate life, there was nothing more to be wished for. But there were also Jedi who could not follow the straight and narrow path for too long—and most were human, after all, or at least humanoid. Their impulses were sometimes, more human than Jedi. It was at these times that the delvei'ish played a most important part. They were singers, dancers and actors—and most were of the female variety, though there had also been a few male delvei'ish who had excelled at such things. Most were born into the profession, some walked into it through inclination; their way of life mirrored the Jedi in more respects than one. Apprenticed to their elders at a very young age, they were taught to be pliant, to excel in the art of conversation, to act and dress in a way that proclaimed their superiority and knowledge over the average citizen – and to their credit, they truly were unequalled, when it came to the arts.

Jedi preferred to closet themselves, when not on missions. A few knights and masters chose their mode of relaxation outside, most were content to stay within the Temple and pursue their preferred form of relaxation. In matters of sparring, the Temple boasted the best training methods, the average knight need ask no more. It was the same on matters connected to the Force. And meditation. Combat. Technology. Communication. Political knowledge.

The performing arts required a compromise, so to speak. Their finely attuned Force senses meant that most Jedi were remarkably susceptible to the nuances of the mind. Few Jedi attended public concerts and performances, aside from what they ventured to on missions—this was because the collected onslaught of emotion, sometimes strung to a fever pitch, tended to immobilise them. Qui-Gon himself strenuously avoided public gatherings in the immediate aftermath of a particularly demanding missions, as he often felt his control slipping away into nothingness. The collective Force auras of a few thousand people at a muzac concert was far from relaxing. It was different when one had prepared his or her defences. Then, it could be, and frequently was enjoyable.

The delvei'ish were invaluable at such times. Well educated and conversant on galactic matters, they could conduct long discussions with Jedi so inclined, perform short concerts, put up a play, listen quietly when the occasion occurred…

…and provide certain other services, upon certain terms.

Not all delvei'ish offered it; neither did all Jedi take advantage of it. He himself had never had a taste for a liaison with them—of a very personal nature. Most, in fact, became life long friends, and required nothing more than intelligent company that would not betray them. It was a mutually beneficial partnership, and one that had assured the delvei'ish of an enviable position among Coruscant's elite.

The presence of delvei'ish in the room meant that it was to be a private concert of some sort. Strange. He had not thought Obi-Wan as a patron of the arts. One never knew, though. His padawan had very distinctive tastes, it appeared. It was as though Obi-Wan, the riddle, had grown even more complex.

Obi-Wan was now speaking with one of them—a petite young female, whose copper hair was piled up into complicated whorls. Her black eyes glittered in the faint light, and her long, slender fingers fluttered through the air often. She smoothed her rich, _selk_ dress, finely embroidered with an ancient Coruscanti design, once too many times.

Qui-Gon averted his gaze, unwilling to subject them to his scrutiny. It was different, somehow, knowing Obi-Wan's circle of acquaintances at close quarters. How had he come by her? Obi-Wan had not brought up the subject of concerts or performances in recent times. What were his intentions regarding the girl? What were the delvei'ish's intentions? Were they just friends? If they had decided to go beyond the norms of friendship, they would hardly be transgressing the Temple's rules—both were of age, and such things were allowed, as long as it was conducted discretely.

_I should not have come_, he thought. He moved away from the room slowly, walking almost involuntarily towards the gardens, unaware of Obi-Wan's eyes following him. He stopped beside a Petri bush and fondled its leaves absently, wondering why he felt so tired.

The Force soothed him, but did not let him feel peace. He felt vaguely restless, as though there were something he should know, something he ought to be doing, instead of standing around, plucking leaves.

Behind him, the faint sounds of an instrument could be heard. There were a few flat tapping noises, a few hushed whispers. A chair scraped somewhere.

The first strains of a lilting melody reached his ears, and his hand stilled. He determined to himself—somewhat childishly—that he would not devote much attention to it. Predictably, it was a delvei'ish singing; Qui-Gon recognized her slightly nasal voice as she had been speaking to Obi-Wan. Doubtless his padawan was among the audience too, enthralled. He threw a look at Obi-Wan, and saw his padawan seated in the outer fringe, head bowed.

It was a romantic song, describing the pangs of separation among lovers. She sang of the moons and the sky and the wretched starlight, and finished on a faintly nostalgic note. A spatter of applause. Qui-Gon angled his head, watching as the artist bowed low, and then excused herself. Strange. Most delvei'ish performed more than one song, surely.

Unless, of course, the gathering had its own share of singers, he thought, as Master Areilein cleared his throat. He remembered now that the crèche Master had a low, soothing voice, the voice he often used to sing to the little ones that needed the assurance of a living being's voice. He felt a flicker of surprise within him, as the he heard the master extol, at length, the beauties of the regional song the artist had just sung. Master Areilein concealed a connoisseur's personality, apparently, judging by the muted exclamations and phrases of pleasure.

But he did not sing. Instead, he yielded his place to another. This time, the song was of battle. Of a mother's sorrow as she waited at home for news of her son. The melody was haunting, the words simple, and the theme one that appealed instantly to anyone present. Qui-Gon found himself agreeing with some of the phrases, of '_a heart thudding with nervousness_,' and '_a tear that fell to the ground_.' Of the father who had died long ago, and of the only one she had left, to herself. The song ended with the woman finally hearing the news that her son had died a hero's death.

The leaves in Qui-Gon's fingers wafted to the ground, crushed.

The gathering murmured exclamations of approval at the merit of the simple song. The knight who had sung it explained that he had composed it himself—Qui-Gon realised with a start that it must be Hallan/Hallen/Hallon…he still did not know the name. His passion for pathos, it seemed, had morphed into song.

The delvei'ish plucked her stringed instrument, adding an accompaniment to the sorrowful tune.

Enough. It was enough. He had heard enough. He must rest. He had to go—

"Padawan Kenobi," Master Areilein's clear voice cut through the air. "Would thou care to perform?"

_Obi-Wan_? he thought, perplexed. Obi-Wan could sing…but he rarely did. A natural instinct for lightsabers and missions, coupled with his own largely hazardous life had driven away any urge in him to sing. Qui-Gon _had_ heard him lift his voice in song, but the occasions had been rare. And Obi-Wan had never brought up the subject voluntarily.

Singing. Somehow, it seemed an abstract thing, unconnected to what they were.

He heard Obi-Wan's voice, as though from very far away. "Yes, Master Areilein." There was an ease in his voice, despite the respectful answer. Obi-Wan must have done this, before.

"Excellent," came someone else's voice. It had a rough edge to it. "It has been a while since I had the pleasure of listening to you, Kenobi."

He had done this, before.

"What is thy song, padawan?"

"A beautiful Corellian ballad, I hope?" came a hopeful voice.

"I though they sang bawdy cantina fare?" a delvei'ish, no doubt. Her voice was soft, musical, and there was a note of laughter in it that proclaimed that she knew infinitely more about Corellian music than most. "Surely Knight Malloes does not wish to hear about Blue ladies and '_that luscious fruit, so dear, so true_."

A burst of chuckles filled the room, and Qui-Gon found himself smiling appreciatively. The verse was an obscure reference to a smuggler and his various unbelievable escapades—most of the legendary kind. He had heard a few lewd versions, but he guessed there must be many that weren't.

"Hardly a ballad, and definitely not Corellian," came Obi-Wan's voice, and his face lost its smile. Obi-Wan seemed at ease with these people, and seemed to share a liking for things Qui-Gon had not really suspected—not in his loyal, devoted, perfect padawan. "I heard it first in the Se'emarian plains. On our last mission."

Someone must have turned and looked at Qui-Gon's stiff, motionless back, standing as he was, among the shadows. He felt the prickling of a few gazes…but then, perhaps he was imagining it.

"Ah," came the rough voice. "They are mountain people, aren't they?"

"They are, now, yes. They lived, supposedly, on the plains, once. By the side of rivers and seas. They were farmers, some of them. And some plied boats in the waterways. That was before they were driven to the hills. Possibly a century ago."

"They have still not lost their connection with the plains, have they?"

"No. They long to return to it, someday. Their lives are bound with the water, they say. It is what their head-man said to me."

"But they will not be allowed to return?"

"No. Not at once." There was a brief silence, as, undoubtedly, details of the recent mission floated through the gathering's mind's eye. _He has been listening to song_, Qui-Gon thought, _as he stayed in the caverns_.

But this was a musical evening, after all, and mention of missions never materialized.

"Please begin," came Master Areilein's gentle command.

A moment of silence passed. Obi-Wan began.

**_(tbc...)_**


End file.
